


And Don't Wear It Out

by sttunny (tunny)



Category: American Idiot - All Media Types, American Idiot - Green Day/Armstrong
Genre: Death, Drugs, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Guns, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, POV Second Person, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 03:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4124704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunny/pseuds/sttunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short-but-not-sweet summary of Johnny's relationship with St. Jimmy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Don't Wear It Out

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this on tumblr first after writing it like three months ago but here it is
> 
> based on john gallagher jr.'s johnny and tony vincent's st. jimmy because that's the only cast I have a bootleg of

Jimmy was the kinda guy you’d meet at a 7-11 as you were on a midnight run for cigs, because that’s where you two first met. You were obviously drunk, he could tell that, but he offered you a ten anyway when you confessed you forgot your wallet. He took your arm and brought you into the 7-11, and told the clerk you needed a pack of Camels. He paid and you were grateful. He asked in return for a place to stay for a while, and you figured, sure, because you were lonely and bored.

Jimmy was the kinda guy who dealt often, mainly dope and crack. And you said you were broke, and he told you the names of a couple of sources he got his drugs from. Before long, you were a dealer too, and the two of you worked together closely. He was a patron saint, alright. His money went towards cigarettes, tattoos, and hair gel. Some days, he spiked his long, black hair up. Most days, it lay flat.

Jimmy was the kinda guy who’d intertwine his fingers in yours at the dead of night as you danced to music only the two of you could hear. He would laugh with you as you thought about how crazy drunk you both were, and how you hadn’t recognized your urge to smoke in a while because you were thinking about him.

Jimmy was the kinda guy who would drag you into a gas station bathroom and make out with you, the cigarette smoke on his breath staining the interaction. His angel face had lips to match. You fit together like puzzle pieces when you kissed. Not a month had gone by and you were head over heels for him. Maybe you were getting nowhere, but with him, maybe you were getting somewhere.

Jimmy was the kinda guy who sat next to you on lonely nights as you masturbated, his hand wrapped around yours as you jerked off into oblivion. You’re bi, and he was pan, and the two of you felt a connection that couldn’t be explained. You wanted to get fucked by him, oh god, how you wanted to get fucked, but he never obliged. He’d tease the hell out of you, sure, but the two of you never had sex. That frustrated you, but you understood.

Jimmy was the kinda guy who’d keep his distance when Whatsername came along, because you liked her, and he could tell. You liked the both of them, actually, but you kept your relationship with Jimmy a secret when she was around. After all, she knew you were a piece of shit, but she thought you were cute. Or was it the opposite?

Jimmy was the kinda guy who joined you when you shot drugs for the first time. Your first high felt amazing, Jimmy made sure of that. You didn’t do the drugs you sold, obviously, but Jimmy found you the best of the best, and released that craving you had been wanting for months.

Jimmy was the kinda guy who turned quickly from understanding to controlling. Sometimes, you knew your enemy was him, but most of the time, you weren’t sure. You often ended up bent over the bathroom sink, needle in hand, and you needed more. Not just of him, but what he was giving you. You always made up. You were being abused every time this happened, but you assured yourself you weren’t. You thought you were fine.

Jimmy was the kinda guy who had to be real, he had to be, but at the same time, he couldn’t have been. When Whatsername brought you back from your delusions, when she called you Johnny and not Jimmy for the first time, when she left you, you realized what you’d been avoiding all this time. Jimmy wasn’t real. He was a double, an alter ego, who you hid yourself behind. And you dropped the drugs. That part of you was dead.

Jimmy was the kinda guy who’d commit suicide. Standing over the bay, with a heart drawn on his bare torso by knife, he pulled the trigger. And you disappeared, saying a quick confession, and then heading back to Jingletown, USA. You weren’t the Jesus of Suburbia, Whatsername let you know that. You also knew Tunny and Will just wouldn’t understand what you went through, but you headed back regardless, arms open, sitting next to a Greyhound toilet. He was your best friend, your lover, your life for those few short months in the city.

He was great.

But he was dead.


End file.
